


Arreglar

by roveron



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Adventure, Angst?, Disney-style adventure, Family, Family Feels, Friendship, Multi-chapter! ft. an actual plot, dia de los muertos, great job miguel, in which people say things they dont mean and things go wrong, maybe a little?, more curses!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-02-10 08:59:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12908622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roveron/pseuds/roveron
Summary: She whirled on her heel, skirt flaring into a pinwheel of color, and moved to slam the door shut on the way out, but her hand lingered on the edge of the door. She paused and glanced over her shoulder at him, a sad look on her face. “Miguel...you know, all that stuff the adults say about Dia de Muertos? It’s not true. You know that, right?”He froze, shoulders tense.Rosa looked from the street to Miguel, unsure if she was going to say anything for a moment, but sighed and added with finality, “That stuff’s just made up to make us feel better about people being dead. When people die, they’re gone.”





	1. romper

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Long time no post :> I'm obsessed with Coco (seriously, I can't stop drawing fanart), so when I got an idea for a story with an actual plot (as opposed to what I usually write, which is oneshots where I awkwardly shoehorn my headcanons in) I ran with it. It's been a bit since I've seen the movie so bear with me if details are inaccurate; please feel free to point those out, as I'd love to keep this as movie-accurate as possible!

It was early in the evening, and dinner had just finished. Everyone had gone to visit the graves together, still singing and laughing under their breaths. Miguel, however, stayed behind, claiming to be exhausted after such a rousing musical performance. He’d wanted to try putting clothes on the ofrenda, remembering the sorry state of Héctor’s clothes. He couldn’t exactly do that in front of his family, though. _Why are you putting clothes on the ofrenda? Only food goes there, mijo_. Or maybe, _Where’d you get those? They’re too big to be yours…_ Too many questions that he couldn’t answer without looking crazy.

He still hadn’t told his family what he’d seen last year. He knew they wouldn’t believe him- if _he_ hadn’t believed in the Land of the Dead at twelve, why would _they_ think it was real, much less believe he’d _been_ there?

Instead, Miguel set the clothes he’d bartered for on the table, on a spot he’d cleared of other offerings. He hadn’t had much to trade for, so the clothes weren’t much- just a white dress shirt and some brown pants that he thought might be around Héctor’s size, plus a belt that wasn’t made of rope. It’d been a whole year since they’d met, though, so he wasn’t sure. If they were a little small, well, Héctor was a skeleton. He was sure they’d be alright- if Héctor got them, that was. When he finished arranging the clothes, he pulled a folded note from his pocket and placed it on top of the clothes with the writing facing up.

 

_Hey Héctor,_

_I don’t know if this’ll work, but I wanted to try putting clothes out for you. Yours didn’t look so great when we met, and I don’t know how stuff works in the Land of the Dead- there’s no one alive to tell me about it, after all. It seemed like you can trade for clothes, but anyway, here’s some you won’t have to trade for, if you get them. I figure you’re here- it must be nice to finally cross the Bridge. I hope you and Mamá Coco see each other a lot, and that you cleared things up with Mamá Imelda. Anyway, have a great Día de Muertos! I’ll write to again you next year._

_-Miguel_

 

Next to his name, Miguel had doodled a little guitar and a skull that was wearing a hat. Satisfied, he stepped back to observe the changes he’d made to the ofrenda. It looked nice- he’d just have to remove them before his family came back, or there’d be no telling what they’d do. He hoped Héctor came soon; he hated the thought of taking down the clothes and hiding them for another year before Héctor got a chance to take them. Maybe by this time next year, though, he’d be able to get Héctor a better hat.

With his back to the door, he didn’t notice anyone else come in.

“Miguel?”

He gasped and whirled. “ _Rosa_! W-what are you- I thought you were at the cemetery!”

Rosa glared back at him, arms crossed. “I _was_ but I forgot something.” She patted the bag that was slung over her shoulder to emphasize that she’d already grabbed it and he’d been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed her at all. “And what about you, anyway? Why are you acting so suspicious?” She craned her neck to try and get a look behind him, but Miguel was blocking her view.

“I uh, was just talking to Mamá Coco, is all,” he said. It didn’t seem to be of any use- she’d spotted something amiss and was now marching towards him.

“What’d you do to the ofrenda, Miguel?”

“None of your _business_!”

“We’re cousins, stupid, it’s my family too and that means it’s my business!”

“Why do you need to be so nosy all the time? Just let me be for once!”

Rosa stopped just short of the ofrenda. No doubt she could see the clothes and the note on top of them by now, but she couldn’t read it with him still blocking her. She stared sharply at him. She was just an inch or two taller than him still, and she used that extra height to glare down her nose at him with an air of condescension. Miguel glared right back up at her. “ _Fine_ ,” she said after a minute of trading intense looks. “But if anything happens to the ofrenda like last year I’m telling Abuelita.”

She whirled on her heel, skirt flaring into a pinwheel of color, and moved to slam the door shut on the way out, but her hand lingered on the edge of the door. She paused and glanced over her shoulder at him, a sad look on her face. “Miguel...you know, all that stuff the adults say about Día de Muertos? It’s not true. You know that, right?”

He froze, shoulders tense.

Rosa looked from the street to Miguel, unsure if she was going to say anything for a moment, but sighed and added with finality, “That stuff’s just made up to make us feel better about people being dead. When people die, they’re gone.” She swallowed the emotions rising in her throat, thankful that Miguel wouldn’t see her composure break with her back to him. She missed Coco too- everyone did- but she’d been dead four months now and her cousin...didn’t seem to get it.

She was about to close the door behind her when something jerked her backwards- Miguel had run up behind her and snagged her by the wrist, pulling her back toward the ofrenda. “Stay there,” he ordered, then ran off into one of the connecting rooms.

It was Mamá Coco’s room. Much of her stuff was still there and undisturbed, including her drawers that Miguel knew contained secrets she’d kept from Mamá Imelda for many years. In the months before her death, she’d shared many of them with the family, including the one he was looking for.

He had to rifle through three drawers before he found what he was looking for, and when he had it he ran back to Rosa. He was careful to close the door behind him so as not to allow any drafts to disturb Mamá Coco’s things, and was pleased to see Rosa still waiting for him, albeit looking very cross.

“Here,” he said, and shoved it into her hand.

Rosa gave him a strange look before she looked down and noted what he’d forced into her palm. “...Mamá Coco’s harmonica?” Her face scrunched in confusion. It was a small, cheap metal harmonica, slightly rusty and definitely very dusty, which Coco had kept hidden from her mother for many years. After she showed them all her letters from Gran Bisabuelo Héctor, she’d dug up the harmonica and put out a few pitiful notes; they’d all applauded her effort anyway. Rosa didn’t know what Miguel wanted her to do with it, though.

“Play a note.” She gave him a pointed look as if to say ‘ _really_?’, at which he rolled his eyes. “Just- humor me, please, Rosa?”

She rolled her eyes right back, but took a breath and raised the harmonica as if to play it. Now it was Miguel who crossed his arms- not out of anger but of smugness for what he knew was about to happen. She put the small instrument to her lips and blew and-

Nothing happened.

Rosa groaned. “ _ Honestly _ Miguel, what did you think was going to ha- hey!” Miguel swooped in to snatch the harmonica from Rosa’s hand, grabbing it before she had even finished her sentence.

“No, you can’t- you must’ve done something  _ wrong-  _ or different!” She would have been offended that he thought she somehow did something wrong (all he’d said was play a note, not that it had to be any good) had his ramblings made any sense whatsoever. Rosa stared at him with something like incredulity on her face, with a hint of confusion mixed in. If he’d bothered to look at her, he would have seen her _ ‘you’re absolutely insane and I don’t know what I’m doing still standing here so if nothing incredible happens in the next ten seconds I’m going to leave _ ’ look.

“Miguel,” she started, sympathy coloring her voice, but he fixed her with a look so despairing that she swallowed what she was about to say. She watched him as he pressed the harmonica sideways to his face and mouthed something she couldn’t hear, almost as though he was praying to it, and played a desperate little note. Again, nothing.

“ _ Miguelito _ ,” she said. She knew he hated it when she called him that; she was a scant six months older than him, and it bothered him to no end that he was the only one whose name she added ‘-ito’ to, despite not being the youngest cousin. It should have gotten his attention, but he was too busy puffing out pathetic little notes while- throwing marigold petals in the air?

...What in the world did he think he was doing?

She wanted to feel sorry for him, but whatever he was trying to prove, whatever he was doing...he was just being crazy now. She steeled herself, mouth a thin line and chin lifted. Without another word, she turned and walked toward the door, leaving her cousin to his delusions. She was ready to leave, to ignore the voice calling her to stay, but she stopped for a second time.

“You’ll see,” he said. He sounded upset, but she didn’t want to turn and look. “Rosa, please...”

She shook her head and swallowed hard. She wished she could have the same conviction her cousin did when it came to Día de Muertos. But the Land of the Dead? There was no such thing. She was done living in the past. It was time for her cousin to move on too. ”Coco’s  _ dead _ , Miguel. She’s gone, and she’s never coming back.” She hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but even to her own ears the words sounded bitter and seething. Rosa realized the instant she said it that she was practically spitting the words at him. Even so, she couldn’t stop the outpouring of words that came next. “Everyone else already moved on. You need to get over it, Miguel.”

The next few moments happened in a rush. Miguel gave a shout and flung the harmonica across the room at Rosa; it hit the doorframe with a loud _thwack_ and cracked the plaster wall. Rosa shrieked at the sound and before she had even registered what he’d thrown, she’d jumped and covered her head and face with her arms. At the same time that the harmonica hit the wall, a powerful gust of wind entered the room and stirred up the scant marigold petals on the floor, impossibly pulling them towards the door and into the street. The harmonica lay broken to the side of her, its cover broken off and dented and the reed plates inside exposed. Rosa gasped when she saw it. He was in _so_ much trouble when Abuelita got back! He was-

 _Gone_. Completely and utterly gone. She didn’t know how he managed to slip past her so quickly. “ _Now you’ve done it_ ,” she hissed, and scooped up the remains of the harmonica to show Abuelita. At last closing the door behind her, she began to make her way back to the graveyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I know a fair bit of Spanish but it's been a while since I practiced it- let me know if there's anything I need to change there! I looked up a few vocabulary things that I didn't know or couldn't remember, but that also brings up the problem of potentially finding results in Castillian Spanish, so I may use the wrong word for the location. I left most of the Spanish sans italics because I use those so much regularly that I felt it would be confusing. :) Feel free to comment corrections or suggestions; I'm open to critique on anything, not just my Spanish, haha!
> 
> (Although, to be honest, I'm up for practice; if you'd like to comment in Spanish, I can take a shot at responding in kind! Thanks!)


	2. viajar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! If you're reading this as an update and not for the first time, I've made some changes to Chapter 1! Most of these consist of adding accents to words that didn't have them before, but some of them are more major. If you've seen the Ch1 comment section, you'll notice a few comments about Miguel overreacting; that's been adjusted slightly and Rosa has some added characterization. Let me know what you think about the changes and this chapter! Thanks! :)

He had no idea what came over him. All he’d wanted was for her to believe that Día de Muertos wasn’t some made up thing, but a second later he found himself staring wide-eyed at the dent in the wall where the harmonica had hit and its crumpled remains on the ground when two voices shouted, “ _ Miguel! _ ”

One of the voices...Miguel gasped. He hadn't noticed the swirl of marigolds in the air, but when he turned around some of them were still settling. He lifted his gaze. “Héctor!”

He ran to hug his great-great-grandfather and caught the skeleton by surprise, judging from his stumble, but Héctor wasn’t nearly as pleased to see Miguel.

“Look what you did,  _ chamaco! _ ” He snarled, shoving Miguel back and gesticulating toward the door, where Rosa was leaving with the harmonica.

Undeterred, Miguel attempted to argue. “But, Héctor, listen-”

“But nothing! You just tried to send your cousin to the Land of the Dead and when that didn’t work, you broke Coco’s harmonica! What kind of- of stupid nonsense is this?” Miguel knew Héctor had been about to use a much worse word than ‘nonsense’, and he would have found the censorship funny if Héctor wasn’t so mad. The man made a frustrated sound as he bent and picked a single flower petal off the floor.

“Wait!” Miguel tried to take the petal from Héctor’s hand, but he simply raised it above both of their heads, where Miguel couldn’t reach even it by jumping.

“Miguel, I give you my blessing to-” Héctor cut off when the petal didn’t give the faintest indication of a glow. He uttered something obscene that even Miguel didn’t find funny. “Now look!” Héctor snarled, stooping and shoving the petal under Miguel’s nose. “You’ve gone and cursed yourself- worse than last time! You  _ can’t  _ go home now! Do you understand that, chico? You’re stuck here!” Héctor was furious- angrier than Miguel had ever seen him, angrier than when he’d found out Miguel had lied about not having any family or when he’d realized de la Cruz had murdered him.

One by one, the meaning of his words sunk in. Miguel’s heart sank with them. He looked from the petal, dull and lifeless, to Héctor’s eyes, then to his hands. He could already see his flesh fading, fingerbones trailing like afterimages when he waved his hand. “...Oh,” he said. It was all he was able to get out. Héctor dropped the petal and straightened to his full height- which seemed now rather tall. The look on his face- skull- said it all.

“Let’s go,” Héctor said darkly. Miguel swallowed but trailed behind him obediently out the door and into the fresh air, which smelled thickly of pan dulce and other treats meant for the spirits. He wondered in the back of his mind if the reason the aroma was so strong now was that he was, at least for the moment, technically dead, or if he had just been inside too long.

“W-where are we going?” he ventured. Héctor’s longer strides, even with the noticeable limp in his step, kept the younger boy at a quick trot.

“Customs.” Beyond Héctor and in the streets surrounding the Rivera household, Miguel could see other skeletons moving about and conversing with one another. Many of them held armfuls of decadent desserts and offerings.

“Wait! Shouldn’t I go get a jacket? You know, one with a hood?”

Héctor stopped short, looking at Miguel and the spirits. He had a point. They’d want to keep this between as few people as possible; they didn’t need another fiasco like last year. And...he shuddered just thinking about what would happen if Imelda knew. The sooner this was over with, the better. “Pretend you can’t see them,” he said after a moment. “Or me. Don’t bump into any of them.”

Miguel swallowed hard and nodded once. That was going to be hard with everyone moving around constantly, but he’d have to manage. He just had to hope that none of them noticed he was glowing- a surefire sign that he was not amongst the living.

* * *

 

With a little luck and some clever dodging, they made it to the edge of Santa Cecilia with little incident, aside from one where Miguel had had a full-on collision with someone and froze in fear, but Héctor covered for him and ushered him onward while claiming that  _ he  _ was the one who had caused the accident- of  _ course  _ that living boy passed right through you, you must be imagining things! The  cempasúchil bridge was a bit more challenging, but when they started getting stares, Héctor handed Miguel his straw hat and instructed him to keep his head down and his hands in his pockets.

The arrival agent had been no less surprised to see a living child this year than the one last year had been, her head rolling back and almost falling off her neck entirely. She scrambled to catch herself and screwed her skull on tight. Once she was recovered, she directed them with a still-shaking finger to the Department of Family Reunions.

“ _ You! _ ” By chance, they’d been sent to the same short skeleton who wore the green visor and reading glasses. He recognized Miguel the instant he and Héctor walked into his office.

“You’re that guy who’s allergic to Dante!”

“Yes and you- who are  _ you? _ ” He squinted up at the taller skeleton, who had reclaimed his hat and was standing with his hands on his- er, pelvis.

“Unfortunately related to this  _ chico tonto _ ,” Héctor replied, ignoring Miguel’s protests at being called a foolish boy. His foot tapped an inconsistent rhythm on the hardwood floor, filling the empty air with dull clicking.

 T he clerk raised a brow ridge, looking between the two. He was skeptical of the relations, but shrugged. It was hard- near impossible, even- to see a family resemblance when one person was dead and the other was alive. “So what’s the problem, then? You know the way to get back,  _ sí? _ ”

Héctor held up a petal he’d grabbed off the bridge and had been holding onto. He began the blessing and stopped halfway through when the petal remained orange and inert. He expected to have his relation to the boy called into question, but instead the clerk gasped and his entire demeanor changed. “Oh, mijo,” he whispered, pulling off his visor and clutching it close to his chest. He peered at the living boy over the tops of his reading glasses, eyes filled with sympathy.

“W-what?” The skeleton’s reaction was, to be honest, quite frightening for Miguel. His fingers twitched, longing for something to fiddle with. The situation was bad enough already; if they couldn’t figure out how to get him home, then…’Y _ ou can’t go home now! Do you understand that, chico? You’re stuck here!’  _

The clerk shook his head, nudging his glasses up and putting his visor back on. He sighed and began arranging the pens on his desk into immaculate straightness, avoiding eye contact. “Frankly, I’ve only heard of this, never seen it myself...they say this is what happens when you disgrace the dead. You need to fix what’s broken in order to go home.”

“The harmonica!” Miguel exclaimed. He turned to Héctor, who had been tapping his chin. “If we fix the harmonica, I can go home!” Héctor’s face lit up and he snapped; the  _ clack _ of bone on bone was much louder and sharper than any snap Miguel had ever heard before.

“Oh,  ¡ que bien!” The clerk exclaimed, clapping. He hopped out of his chair and shuffled his way toward them, maneuvering around the stacks of papers piled all about his office, and started shooing them out of the cramped room. They didn’t need much encouragement; the stout skeleton had hardly opened his mouth before Miguel was halfway out the door, Héctor darting out in front of him. “Now hurry! Remember, til dawn!”

 


	3. esperar

“Rosa, there you are!” Abuelita spotted her granddaughter from a mile away- Papá swore up and down she must have some sort of sixth sense for where every one of her relatives at any given moment, and Rosa agreed with him. Abuelita was waving her down from next to the newest headstone in Santa Cecilia’s graveyard- that of Coco Rivera.

When she got close enough, the older woman rushed her and grabbed her by the face, smushing her cheeks and tilting her head every which way, even checking behind her ears (what could possibly be back there, Rosa wondered?). “You aren’t hurt are you? What took you so long getting back here?” That was Abuelita, all right; trust her to be concerned if you were so much as a moment later than she expected you to be back by. At least she was concerned and not angry.

In truth, the strange conversation she’d had with Miguel wasn’t what had taken her so long. When she left the house, she’d taken a longer route getting back to the cemetery that took her through the center of town. While she wasn’t specifically looking for her cousin, she did keep an eye out for him as she passed through the plaza, even though he’d left his guitar at the house. She’d tried not to linger in the square, but dwelled for a few minutes too long on the cries of the musicians trying to rile up the audience and the sweet sounds of violins that careened through the air. The whole square was lit up with thousands of candles and lanterns, cempasúchil petals intermingling with countless other flowers she couldn’t name even if she had an encyclopedia in her lap, but it was all so far away. It was right there in front of her, yet she could never reach it if she tried. Dancers floated through the air like paper on strings: suspended in air, still bound by gravity, but so untethered that it was as if they never noticed its pull. It was as if they were ghosts, or some other ethereal beings barely tied to the earth. Rosa had, in that moment, felt like a boulder.

Abuelita pulled back, but kept her rock-solid grip on Rosa’s shoulders, squinting at her. “You _were_ able to find them, no?”

Rosa brushed Abuelita’s hands off her to allow her to reach into her satchel. She dug out the thin, delicate paintbrushes she’d picked up at the house and showed them to Abuelita. “Sí, los traje.”

Every town had its own variation on tradition for Día de Muertos, and Santa Cecilia was no different. Some towns held contests to see who could craft the most beautiful and elaborate calaveras, sometimes of paper mache instead of the usual sugar. Others had poetry competitions or showcases. Still others held parades, though that was more common in large towns and cities. In Santa Cecilia, they painted the graves of their loved ones every year, in addition to keeping them clean and well-maintained- not to mention completely coating them in flowers and other gifts. Some families kept them simple and merely applied a fresh paint of coat every year, while others did elegant trimmings in shimmering gold and silver accents. Still others, like the Riveras, liked to go all out; these graves were the most colorful of all and were coated top to bottom in every color imaginable, from the deepest blues to the brightest pinks. Each one told a different story, and each year something new was added to them. The older the grave or the more storied its inhabitant, the more colorful the headstone was likely to be, like great-great-grandma Imelda’s; hers was covered in paint, some layers overlapping. For the Riveras especially, painting had been a welcome distraction from the music that filled the rest of Santa Cecilia. Now that music was welcome in their family, though, it made Día de Muertos just that much better.

This year it was time to paint Coco’s grave. Though it was already painted in the most exquisite, shimmering pearl, it needed to be decorated. It had already been decided: of course, the most logical way to paint Coco’s would be with music. In order to include all the details they wanted, they needed the finest, smallest-tipped brushes, which was what Rosa had gone back to fetch. It wasn’t that she forgot them, per se, just that she hadn’t realized they’d need so many of them. Coco had touched so many people’s lives that every member of the Rivera family, even those who didn’t normally do much more than base coats or touching up lettering, wanted to paint a special design onto Coco’s headstone, in memory of the wisdom and kindness she had imparted onto them.

Even as she presented the brushes to Elena, Rosa found her free hand returning to her bag and winding around the remains of the harmonica, which she’d wrapped in a spare bit of leather and shoelace to keep all the pieces in one place. “Perfect!” Abuelita said with a broad smile. “We can get started right away!” She took the brushes and started to head back to the grave, where the some of the Riveras were working on touching up the graves of other family members. There were colorful tubes of paint and larger brushes set up all around Coco’s grave, but it remained a blank slate so everyone could work on it together.

“Abuelita, espere-” she started, grabbing her grandmother’s hand.

Elena turned, her face drawn up in concern. The worry in her features added decades to her appearance, wrinkles multiplying. “What is it, mija?”

“I uh-” The accusation twisted and tangled in her throat. Abuelita had been so happy the past few days as the final preparations began for Día de Muertos. She’d been working hard especially for this, ardently hammering out the minutia of the headstone design so as to equally incorporate everyone’s ideas, and when dinner had finished up she’d ushered everyone back inside to grab their paints and brushes with a vigor that would have been almost frightening to see out of an older woman if it hadn’t been Elena Rivera. She was the fiercest and fieriest old lady in all Santa Cecilia, Rosa was sure of that, but for the months following the death of Coco, the Rivera matriarch had been more subdued than usual. Coco’s death hit everyone hard, but Elena most of all. At times, she looked so worn out as to be almost gray. She was like a statue carved of volcanic rock, her fire sealed away inside. Only in the past few weeks had her typical spark begun to show again. Things were looking up, and she’d been _so_ happy.

She couldn’t spoil that for her abuela. It could wait until tomorrow. By then, Miguel would have to come back, anyway.

She mustered up a smile. “...I was wondering if you wanted some pan dulces, is all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time. It took a bit longer because I tried to make it longer, but I couldn't extend it without it being bloated or irrelevant, so that's it for this update. I know in the movie none of the graves look painted, but since I know tons of towns in Mexico have their own traditions for Dia de Muertos, I wanted to think of one for Santa Cecilia, and this is just what came into my mind. Plus, I had an idea...
> 
> I'm an artist, and since winter break is coming up, what would ya'll think if I went back and put in some drawings? I was thinking of doing one of Coco's headstone. Whether or not I end up doing it for the earlier chapters, there's definitely going to be one in the next chapter, so keep an eye out!
> 
> Anyway, again, comments, suggestions, critique, etc are appreciated! Thanks for reading! :)


	4. cruzar

Santa Cecilia was aglow with thousands upon thousands of tiny lights and orange-lit spirits. Even from beyond the cempasúchil bridge, it was magnificent. It looked peaceful from afar, despite being a whirlwind of festivities inside. As they drew closer, Héctor slowed his breakneck pace to a brisk walk that slowed even further to an amble. He came to a stop where the marigolds gathered and curved upward to bring the dead to the living, and set one foot on the surface; when he didn’t sink, he pulled his other, more reluctant foot with him, stiff and stilted not from his limp but from hesitation.

He’d crossed the bridge once already tonight, and yet it still felt like a dream to finally be able to walk across it. A tiny bit of irrational fear that he would sink without Imelda to guide him had stuck in his mind, and was still hiding in the recesses of his brain even as he stood upon the bridge. Exactly as they had a few hours ago, his feet skimmed the petals, but he remained on top of the surface. Only a few petals were disturbed by his presence. He flexed his fingers, itching to feel the fresh air of the living world again.

It took Miguel several seconds to catch up with Héctor. For a dead guy who flailed his limbs when he ran and had a bad limp, he could move with impressive speed when he wanted to, and unlike Miguel, he didn’t have lungs to slow him down.

“Okay,” he wheezed, hands on his knees, “What’s...the plan?”

Héctor grimaced. If the same rules applied to Miguel as the rest of the dead, then getting the harmonica back would be _worse_ than difficult. Near impossible even. But Miguel wasn’t quite dead- yet, at least. “First we’re gonna try taking the harmonica directly, but we gotta avoid the others. If that doesn’t work-”

“Wait!” Miguel interjected, “What do you mean ‘ _avoid the others_ ’? Can’t I at least say hi to them?”

Héctor shook his head so hard it almost fell off his shoulders, crossing his arms in an ‘X’. “¡De ninguna manera! If Imelda sees you here she’ll…” He broke off with a shudder, then waved his hands as if to clear smoke. “Look, chamaco, the sooner we get this over with the better, and the fewer people we involve, the quicker we’ll be done. Eh? What do you think?” He offered up his best grin, but the boy looked unconvinced- it was like giving a sales pitch to a particularly obstinate customer. Or talking to crossing agents. Or corrections officers. Anyone who didn’t like him a year ago, which was pretty much everyone.

“ _I_ think you’re just scared of Mamá Imelda,” Miguel waved him off and started to walk across the bridge, Héctor following.

“Eh- aha, very funny!” Héctor acted indignant at the suggestion, but his nervous laugh gave him away. Miguel simply gave him a knowing look, well aware of how terrifying Imelda could be. “Bah!” Héctor scoffed and smacked Miguel’s shoulder in jest. “It’s you who’ll get _la chancla_ anyway! All _I’ve_ done is try and get you home.” His face went slack when the realization hit him, and Héctor barked a triumphant laugh. He jogged ahead by a few paces, reaching the edge of the bridge first.

With a light push, both of them fell through the barrier at the edge of the living world. Héctor tripped on his own foot and began wheeling his arms to steady himself. His right arm clipped Miguel and despite his best efforts not to, he knocked the boy over anyway He went tumbling to the ground and landed on the cobblestones in a heap; the force of his landing knocked the air from his lungs, and all Miguel could do for a moment was stare at Héctor’s-

Shoes. Héctor had shoes now. They were classic Rivera shoes, made of polished black leather and crafted with immaculate accuracy to the wearer’s exact needs and measurements. These were size ten and a half, narrow. _Mamá Imelda,_ he determined. Not that the rest of the Riveras didn’t make great shoes, but he’d heard it said that towards the end of her life, Imelda had become so skilled at shoemaking that she could take fewer orders than everyone else and still make more money than the whole workshop combined. Whether or not that was true, the caliber of her footwear was unmistakable.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and accepted Héctor’s hand to be pulled up to his feet. Once he’d brushed himself off, he took in the rest of Héctor’s clothes: there in front of him was a familiar white dress shirt and pair of brown pants. He’d kept his blue shirt, which had been hemmed into a vest and well-washed, and layered it over his suspenders and new shirt. The rope he had used for a belt was looped into a loose coil around the proper one he now wore; clipped next to it was a leather pouch that bulged from its contents. This too was Rivera handiwork, which would have been obvious from the large, ornate ‘R’ stamped into the side even if Miguel wasn’t already so familiar with the other uses his family had for leather.

Stepping back, Miguel realized how much better Héctor looked as a whole. It wasn’t just that his clothes had been repaired- his bones as a whole were lighter. While they weren’t quite to the pearly white sheen of Ernesto de la Cruz’s, with how strong his memory had been, or even some of the other Riveras, who weren’t so well known as the iconic Imelda Rivera herself, they weren’t the rotting almost-ochre they’d been before. They were smoother too, less pockmarked and brittle. Though he still had his characteristic limp, the peeling tape around his right forearm had been replaced and looked more securely wrapped, and if he had to bet Miguel would bet that the tape on his lower left leg was the same. His hair was neatly combed and glossier than Miguel remembered, appearing well-kept and clean.

Héctor tapped Miguel’s head with a fist. “Anyone home, chamaco?”

Miguel grinned. “Let’s go get that harmonica,” he said.

* * *

Ernesto de la Cruz’s tomb, desecrated as it was, was the perfect hiding spot for two people who didn’t want to be seen. Long-dried yellow splatters caked the sides, and the ground was littered with eggshell. The walls had been coated with obscene graffiti; most of it was directed at Ernesto, but some was typical teenage vandalism- things like “Juan estuvo aquí” and various inappropriate phrases he hoped Miguel didn’t know the meaning of (But what was the point in hoping? When _he_ was thirteen he certainly knew some terrible words, and he _used_ them too). Héctor didn’t approve so much of the vandalism of the grave, but...he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel it was justified. Plus, there was nobody around, living or dead, to admire the tomb or place offerings at its steps. The graves of the Rivera family were within viewing distance of the tomb, but not so close that they were within earshot, and they could easily duck further behind the building if they were in any danger of being spotted.

Which, in Héctor’s opinion, they most certainly were. There were no less than seven Rivera spirits in attendance tonight, a respectable number of visitors for any family, and though they were deep in conversation with one another and observing their loved ones, there was always the possibility of someone turning around and seeing them before they could jump out of sight.

“Oh,” Miguel breathed, “Mamá Coco...”

Héctor winced. The last time Miguel had seen Coco, she probably hadn’t been in too great a shape. “Mijo, the curse,” he reminded him gently. When Miguel stared back at him, eyes shining and bottom lip quivering, he sighed. _Darn puppy-dog eyes,_ he thought. “You can say hi afterwards-” He held up a finger before the boy could say anything, “-only if there’s time.”

“Look- there she is!” Miguel gasped. Héctor shifted closer to better follow his finger; one hand rested on the wall and the other on the boy’s shoulder, and if he’d had any lungs he’d almost be breathing down his neck. She’d been hidden in the throng of people before, but when the crowd of relatives shifted, Rosa became visible. She was talking to Miguel’s Tío Berto- her papá- near Imelda’s grave. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was smiling. She had her bag on her shoulder, where he assumed she’d have the harmonica. Unless she’d already given it to Elena, in which case Miguel was in for a lot of trouble now _and_ when he got back home. “How are we gonna get it?” Miguel asked.

Héctor shook his head. “Has to be you,” he said, gesturing at himself. His bones and clothes were translucent and glowing orange, the ground visible behind him. “I can’t touch anything unless it’s an offering. You, well, _you’re_ not dead. You might still be able to grab it.” Miguel was similarly glowing, but significantly less transparent; it was much harder to see the ground through him. Even so, the second he stepped out from behind the mausoleum, it would be easy for the spirits to spot him.

Miguel thought for a moment, biting his lip. He was focused on his hands, fingers tapping a fluid _pat-pat-pat-pat_ as they landed one by one on his legs, both hands perfectly in sync. He seemed to be thinking of the same thing. He stared out at the graveyard, tapping his chin with a bony finger, when he spotted a familiar alebrije.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, not the most exciting chapter, but there's some questions answered: Hector DID get the clothes Miguel left for him!There's a little bit of canon divergence in this chapter (possibly more that I missed) in that at the end of the movie, Hector doesn't seem to have a limp and has no tape on his bones anymore, but I think that he was injured in his attempts to cross the bridge (or just years of neglecting himself) and not because of being forgotten, and even with care/attention they aren't 100% going to disappear, so that's why those are still present here. What do ya'll think of the drawing? Not my best Héctor, and he kinda looks like a cowboy, but it's far from my worst, lol. Should I put more drawings in or leave it as is?
> 
> Chapter 5 will probably take a bit longer to post, by the way- I'm leaving for a trip tonight and most likely won't be able to write chapter 6 until Sunday or later. :( However, winter break has now begun, so I'll have plenty of time to update afterwards! :)


	5. colisionar

Dante had disappeared for a few weeks after last Día de Muertos. He had developed a tendency to do that- make off for days or even weeks at a time with no sightings through the entire town, only to faithfully return to Miguel’s side sometime later. In the time between Dante’s first disappearance and his return, it was decided that it was only right to adopt the strange hairless dog who, as far as they knew, had guided Miguel home when he’d gotten lost that night. With help from his father, Miguel had worked hard to craft a beautiful leather collar for the dog, made of scraps but graceful nonetheless. It would have better suited a more elegant dog than the clumsy xolo, with its intricate detailing and stitching, but belonged to Dante nonetheless.

Within three days of wearing the collar, it was gone.

No one had any idea where it went. The second collar suffered a similar fate, but in half as much time. More cautious consideration for Dante’s wandering habits were taken with that one; there was no disappointment in losing a plain strip of unused leather with a misshapen buckle and ‘DANTE’ unevenly scratched into the side.

After that, they stopped trying to outfit Dante with collars, and allowed him to come and go as he pleased. He tended to stay through the nights and slept inside, but often left in the morning, reappearing when Miguel returned home from school. No matter their best efforts, he was a street dog through and through, even if he did have a permanent home. He never came when called (unless it was Miguel doing the calling), never followed commands without incentives, was always around when nobody expected (or sometimes wanted) him to be, but returned to Miguel’s side without fail, faithful as a guard dog raised from puppyhood.

His appearances were difficult to predict, but tonight was lucky: Dante had been hanging around the house all day, well into the evening. And as luck would have it, he’d followed the family into the graveyard. He didn’t look too interested in the spirits who milled about, having had his fill of bones the year before, but still rubbed against their legs looking for attention. None of the living in the graveyard paid him any mind as he pressed up against nonexistent forces, rolling their eyes at the dog instead.

“Do you have any food?” Miguel whispered, turning to face Héctor.

His eyes flicked between the boy and the graveyard, checking to make sure they weren’t seen. “What? Why would we need-” He stopped short as his eyes lit upon the dog, who, in a strange reversal of roles, was being chased by a housecat. “ _Ohhh_.” His voice took on a tone of mischief and delight, eyes gleaming. He unclipped his bag from his belt and dug around inside, first pulling out a pair of pants- they looked like a trimmed version of the striped ones he’d last had- followed by a thick book, was that someone else’s arm bone?, a long flowery scarf covered in dirt, several bottles of alcohol- most of which were halfway empty, a broken fishing rod, and a piece of machinery so old that Miguel couldn’t identify it before he at last pulled out a platter of pan de muerto, inexplicably unharmed and arranged in a circle on the plate, all the sugar intact. Despite all the contents that had been removed, the bag was bursting full. Miguel gawked.

Héctor, aware that he had been caught in the act, winced and offered a grin that was filled with unease, his shoulders almost up to his cheekbones. “¿Que puedo decir? Old habits die hard…”

Miguel shook his head, trying to snatch the bag and see what else was inside. Héctor moved it out of his reach before he could do so, smacking his hand like Abuelita would smack Dante’s nose when he begged. He clutched it close to his sternum, protective.

“No! I mean how’s it hold all that stuff? There’s no _way_ it’s big enough!”

“Oh!” Héctor’s shoulders now rolled with laughter, the tension flooding away from his bones. “Eh! It’s magic, muchacho!” With a twist, he popped off his skull and tossed it to Miguel, who fumbled and caught it backwards, sticking his tongue out in a grimace; Héctor had ‘lost his head’ multiple times last year, but holding his skull? That was another thing entirely. It reminded him too much of the skeleton he’d bumped into when he’d first stolen the guitar. Hiding his disgust, he turned Héctor’s head so they could face each other. “It’s the same way this works- and I have no idea how that is.” Héctor’s body reached for its missing piece, and Miguel gratefully obliged its unspoken request. With a solid _whack_ , Héctor screwed his head back onto his neck. “Good as new!” He wiggled his fingers in a ‘tada!’ motion, raising his ‘eyebrows’. " _Magic._ ”

“Like how Dante’s a normal dog here, but an alebrije-” Miguel motioned in the general vicinity of the cempasúchil bridge, faintly visible in the distance. “Over there.”

“...Exactly!” Well, not really, but close enough. Nobody understood how magic worked in the Land of the Dead, not even those skilled enough to harness it. There were several theories floating around regarding the marigold bridge and how crossing worked, but there was no consensus as to which was correct. All that could be said for certain was that alebrijes...including the dog who was tripping over his own absurdly long tongue...were able to cross whenever they pleased, without a special day or bridge to do so. Héctor rolled his eyes. The xolo’s doofy mannerisms did not bring to mind the majestic, revered creatures of the Land of the Dead, nor did they inspire confidence in the dog’s ability to do anything but fumble over everything. Héctor was counting on that inherent clumsiness. He straightened the collar of his vest, tucked his thumbs under his suspenders, and winked. “Leave it to me, chamaco.”

 

* * *

Miguel couldn’t help but stare, slack-jawed, at the chaos that blossomed like weeds in Héctor’s wake. He sprung out from behind the mausoleum, bread in hand, and bounced his way over the spirits and drawing all eyes to him with a loud, exuberant _grito_. He had then fallen face-first into at least four ghosts, cascading bread and bones everywhere, which caused even more tripping. Dante, of course, was right in the middle of the throng, snapping at the bread, the bones, everything he could. He caused an excellent panic among the living and the dead as he trounced artfully through headstone decorations and darted under foot and skirt alike, seeming to revel in the anarchy he helped create. Miguel wondered for a split second if Dante was somehow aware of the plan; the xolo crashed into Rosa and caught her bag around his neck momentarily before tossing his head and sending its contents flying. A moment later, he continued on his path of destruction towards the altars, eliciting an apologetic wince from his spectating owner. Maybe not. Miguel made a silent promise to help fix them once this was all over, and darted out while Héctor fumbled to recollect his limbs and generally caused as much of a distraction as possible. He had to hand it to his great great grandpa: he could act surprisingly well, and was quite smooth in a pinch.

He made a beeline for Rosa’s scattered belongings, at first dismissing an unassuming heap of leather until he caught a glint of metal inside. When he recognized it, he wondered how he’d missed it. It was laid out like a present, tempting him with just a hint of rusty tin offering a teasing peek at what was inside. He sucked in a breath, anticipation sending a tremor through his very bones. Would he pass through the harmonica and come up with nothing at all? Would he be able to pick up its physical form, or would he end up with a gossamer replica in his hands?

He plunged his hand down and his fingers tingled as they slipped straight through the harmonica. His breath choked in his throat, an exclamation morphing into something more like a cough-like gasp that squeezed its way out. Again and again, he ghosted through the object. He was becoming desperate, but something else caught his eye, hovering at the edge of his vision. Charming pink fuzzy slippers, women’s seven, shifted as their owner halted a scant few feet away from him.

He didn’t dare look any higher. Maybe she hadn’t seen his fingers slide right through the instrument. If he pretended he hadn’t noticed anything, maybe she’d think he was still a normal living boy.

His outstretched hand denied the possibility. Was it possible the curse was working faster this year? He didn’t remember it being this far so early in the night. His skin was invisible well past his wrist; he didn’t know where it reappeared in his sleeve, but his entire hand was bony and skeletal like Héctor’s and the rest. It, along with the rest of him, was backlit from within by sunset-hued orange.

He swallowed the thickness from his throat. _Face it like a man_ , Papá Franco would urge. He was but a boy, yet his spine uncurled itself without his urging.

She stooped and slid her fingers around the little brown package Miguel had found himself unable to grasp, drawing out a glistening copy of the harmonica and its trappings. When she rose up, he saw her kind smile, her crinkled eyes, and her wisp-like braids; all of it was the same, except she was a little brighter, a little bonier, a little less opaque. In death, she was more alive than he’d ever known her.

“...hola Mamá Coco.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, oh my god, guys, the next chapter's gonna kill y'all >:D this one though! it features a few of my headcanons, especially one regarding the thing that bothered me the most about this movie. fun fact: MICROPHONES DON'T WORK THAT WAY, PIXAR. the explanation? things work a little...different in the land of the dead. the use of magic isn't especially common, but it can be used to do things like extend the range of sound picked up by a microphone or the amount of things that can be put in a container. Miguel probably doesn't question the mics in movie because he honestly has no idea they can't do that.
> 
> so yeah! here's some fun stuff! :>


	6. sentir

He held his composure for as long as possible. Mamá Coco didn’t say anything for the longest time, either. She just tilted her head and watched him, quiet as ever. For Miguel, it was unbearable. Her gaze wasn’t critical, wasn’t judging in any way, but he couldn’t bear to make eye contact for more than a moment at a time.

He swallowed, working up the courage to look at anything other than her slippers, which were embroidered with flowers. The bottoms were a pristine white, even though she had no doubt been walking around all night with them. It felt like his heart was throbbing against his ribcage with every speeding beat. 

Coco opened her arms to him, a silent invitation. Miguel rushed to her so quickly he wasn’t sure if her sleeves were fluttering in the evening breeze or from the wind he’d caused. “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, burying his head into the crook of her neck. It was a little uncomfortable with no flesh to act as a cushion, but it didn’t matter. She was solid, she was present, she was _real_. Every emotion, every thought from last Dia de Muertos until now came threading up through his constricted throat as he continued to cry into her arms. “I’m so _s-sorry_ ,” he repeated. “I broke your- your harmonica, and I yelled at Rosa, and I thought you might have- that maybe you weren’t here, I’d dreamed it up and I...I...” She said nothing, rubbing his back in slow circles with her thumbs.

Logically, he _knew_ she was out there. He’d seen the Land of the Dead with his own two eyes a year ago, and just tonight he’d visited again. Papá Héctor should have been proof enough of their existence; he too was physical, solid, and real. An irrational part of his brain had told him that breaking the harmonica would make her disappear, but he’d already seen her from a distance. Even so, all he wanted to do was melt in her comforting presence.

They hugged for so long Miguel was almost certain that dawn had already passed and he was stuck as a skeleton forever, even though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. _That’s fine. At least Mamá Coco is here,_ he thought for a passing moment. The wayward thought sent him bubbling into tears again, and each time he was certain he was finished something else kept him going, like how he was sure the dead Rivera clan was now aware of his presence and was watching him break down into hysterics the way his baby sister did, or how he broke her harmonica in a fit of childish emotion. No matter what, he couldn’t seem to slow his stuttered breaths.

Until Coco started humming, that is. She started low and quiet to begin, so much so that he almost didn’t recognize what song it was at first. He _had_ to quiet his breathing in order to hear her.

She hummed the first verse, and then she began to sing.

It was off-key, stilted, and uneven, but in that moment it was the most amazing singing Miguel had ever heard. “Las palabras que dije...se volvieron canción…”

That was his song. _His_ song. The one he’d written for her, for Imelda, for Hector, for all of the dead and all of the living. She’d heard his song, and just as how he’d sung _Recué_ _rdame_ to her, she was singing _Proud Corazón_ to him.

“Mijito, no llores, estoy aquí.” Her voice- it was incredible just to hear it again, stronger and less feeble than ever. She held him at arm’s length, wiping a tear from his cheek with a thumb. Though bone, her finger was warm as it swept across his face, curving and brushing his hair, which was in desperate need of a trim, away from his eyes. “Y siempre estaré contigo, en su corazón.” She smiled, and it was like a thousand sunrises. “Even if you can’t see us or feel us, we’re always with you, as long as you remember us.”

She unwrapped the harmonica then, letting the leather and string drop to the ground. They vanished in a shimmer of orange light, fading like smoke. The metal and wood pieces that remained clattered on her bones, like a windchime. “Ay, it’s completely busted,” she said, shaking her head and _tsk-_ ing. “I don’t think this can be fixed.” He swallowed, biting his lip. Was she mad? She didn’t look it, but then again, he couldn’t ever remember seeing Coco angry before. She just...slept a lot.

He gasped in horror as she let the broken instrument slide from her grip. It evaporated before it even hit the ground, too fast for him to dive to catch it. He twitched forward, his whole body begging him to move, but it was as if he was nailed to the ground. 

Her eyes crinkled, delight coloring them rosy and cheerful, and dusted her hands off. “But that’s not what needs fixing, now, is it?”

* * *

That _stupid dog._

On most days, Dante didn’t bother Rosa. He could be obnoxious with how nosy and clumsy he was, but he tended to stay away from her unless she had food, instead choosing to follow Miguel around wherever he went. Sometimes, a gray tabby cat with sparkling golden eyes would follow Dante back to the Rivera household, and Rosa much enjoyed petting the cat over Dante, whose skin was weird to the touch and always too hot, especially in the summer. Miguel had nicknamed the cat Pepita, though nobody knew why he’d wanted to call her ‘pumpkin seed’ (she wasn’t even orange!). She wasn’t allowed inside the house, but seemed to find her way inside no matter how securely locked the doors and windows were- not that Rosa minded, as she much preferred the stray cat over the dog.

So, for the most part, because they didn’t interact too much, Rosa and Dante’s relationship was one of distant acknowledgement, with some disdain on Rosa’s part, because he had slobbered inside and caused her to trip more than once. If he didn’t bother her, she wouldn’t bother him, and that was that.

Of course, then he’d go and do something like this, which would no doubt earn him the whole family’s ire.

Rosa sniffled and rubbed at her knee, brushing soil off it. A sharp sensation traveled up and down her entire leg when she contacted the abused area, and she hissed in pain; she’d landed on it harshly when Dante had jumped on her and pushed her to the ground, and it was now scraped and bloody, staining her favorite orange skirt; its color had matched the marigold petals that had all but overtaken Santa Cecilia, but it was now covered in dirt and splotches of red. Her glasses had also gotten knocked off, but hadn’t been stepped on, and so were unharmed. She cleaned them off with her shirt, held them up to the light to check them, and put them on once she was satisfied. She blinked a few times, unconvinced for a moment that her eyes weren’t tricking her. The devastation was far more widespread than she’d thought it would be.

There were cempasúchil petals _everywhere,_ photos accompanying broken glass across the ground, and various food offerings sullied with dirt and pebbles. Over half of the graves destroyed didn’t even belong to Riveras, and it was bad enough that he’d damaged her family’s. Not to mention that when he’d gone crashing through everyone, he’d not only gotten a hold of her bag and thrown the harmonica bits everywhere, he’d also tripped into the painting supplies set up around the graves. Coco’s headstone, which was in the process of being transformed from pure alabaster to red, orange, pink, blue, and every other color imaginable, was now slathered in a mess of colors, obscuring the intricate designs they’d worked so hard on. Several of the Riveras were also decorated in colorful splatters, ruining their nice celebration clothes.

“Ay, chica! Estás bien?” Tío Enrique was the closest and first to extend a hand to her, and she allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and inspected. As he checked her over, she noticed in his ever-present leather apron was now decorated with several multi-colored paw-prints, indicating he’d been stepped on by Dante. She’d been lucky not to suffer the brunt of the xolo’s sudden outburst as he had.

“I’m fine, are _you?”_ she asked, concerned for her uncle.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Well, I’ll feel better once Miguel gets a handle on that dog. Your knee’s alright, then?” 

“It’s just a little scraped,” she affirmed, “I’ll be okay.”

“Will you help us pick up the pa-” Enrique stopped short, his eyes fixed to the ground behind her. Rosa turned and followed his gaze. The harmonica. When she looked back to Enrique, his face had morphed into one of pure rage. “That dog!”

She froze. On one side, her heart leapt. She didn’t have to bring Miguel’s part in all this up, and they could let this fade as a singular incident. They could just pretend it was all Dante’s fault, and they could just forget about what either of them had done. Abuelita could be happy. But...could she really let Dante take the blame for this? Sure, he was clumsy, excitable, and a bit annoying, but he never meant to cause grief. What would come of him if she’d let him take the blame? Would he be kicked out forever, left on the streets again? Enrique moved to pick up the instrument, but Rosa darted in front of him. “Wait!”

She’d had two options, and by stopping him, had just definitively crossed out one of them. She could’ve let Dante take the blame for the damage. That would get her and Miguel out of trouble, to be sure, but it...wasn’t really fair to the dog.  The other option was to tell Enrique that Miguel had done it. That was the best option. After all, he _had_ been the one to throw it. But...

‘ _Everyone else already moved on. You need to get over it._ ’ Those were her words. She’d been the one to provoke him. _She_ was the one who said those hurtful things. She was as much to blame as Miguel was, if not moreso for being the instigator. It wasn’t one hundred percent her fault, but it was enough. She sighed and dropped her arms to her sides, her gaze burning a hole in her sandals.

“It wasn’t Dante. I broke it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I driving you crazy with the sense that I'm not making? Coco can pick up the harmonica because it belonged to her in life! ;) Also, I mixed and matched the song titles and lyrics from their various translations to help with the flow, so that's why Proud Corazon appears with its English title but Spanish lyrics. Coco's line about always being with Miguel in his heart was inspired by [this](https://youtu.be/3iDxU9eNQ_0) version of Remember Me, which I've ~~probably~~ definitely looped way too many times and which was literally the only thing I could listen to while writing this.
> 
> By the way, this hit over 10k words when I was writing chapter 7, ahhh! :D
> 
> ps meri chrysler


	7. responsabilizarse

‘ _You need to fix what’s broken in order to go home_.’

Miguel remembered the information clerk in the Department of Family Reunions, with his green visor and piled paper. His words shot through Miguel’s mind like a rimshot on a snare drum. He’d never needed to fix the harmonica.

He looked behind- _through_ Coco. His Papá had only just helped Rosa up before he noticed the harmonica on the ground and blamed the destruction on Dante. Rosa looked...guilty, her eyes wide and downcast. Miguel, transfixed, moved to stand next to the wreckage. His mind seemed to be moving through syrup. Things seemed slow and distant. There was nothing he could do like this; he was halfway to dead by now. Then Rosa jumped in front of Papa, defiant, and time returned to normal. He needed to act- but what could he do? She was ready to claim responsibility for the harmonica, he could tell. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, entire body sagging.

He took a step forward. “It wasn’t Dante. I broke it.” He was surprised at his own words, but he stood resolute, quietly thankful that his shock didn’t show. This was his responsibility.

Time stopped again. An agonizing second passed wherein nothing occurred and nobody moved. Even the wind seemed to halt, as though the earth had stopped turning for just them. He faltered, thinking for a moment that perhaps he was still in whatever limbo he became trapped in when cursed. His fists clenched of their own accord, and he felt his nails dig into the flesh of his palms.

Rosa snapped around, her skirt transforming into a myriad of orange, red, and dirt-brown. She stared. “Miguel? When did you-”

“Why, hijo?” Enrique’s face contorted in confusion, searching his son’s eyes for answers.

He took a moment to think, choosing his next words with care. “...I got angry. I overreacted and I blew up at Rosa. I forgot that we’re all hurting. I let my own emotions make me forget about hers.” Miguel wasn’t look at his Papa anymore: he was looking at Rosa. “And I hope she can forgive me for being a jerk.” Her mouth parted, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what. She didn’t know what to do with his apology.

Enrique connected the dots between his son’s words and the broken harmonica before Rosa made up her mind. “You threw this at her?” His brows dug trenches between his eyes. When Miguel nodded, they drew even closer together, the trenches becoming canyons. Perhaps the fact that he didn’t understand why Miguel had done it made the action that much more concerning to Enrique. “You’re grounded, then. No guitar, no writing music for two weeks, and you’re taking up Rosa’s chores as well as your own. You’re babysitting Manny and Benny too.” Miguel relaxed his fists, feeling a sting as his nails left the creases they’d dug in his palms, and nodded again. That was an acceptable punishment. He was getting off easy, all things considered.

Well, maybe not. It depended on how much of a handful the twins decided they wanted to be.

But then, Rosa. Her goal tonight seemed to be to surprise Miguel as often as possible. “No! It’s my fault too. I...I provoked him. I told him to get over it, but I’m not over it myself. I said some horrible things I shouldn’t have said.” She took a few steps forward and came face to face with Miguel. “And I’m sorry for that,” she said softly. Then she turned and stood side by side with him, a hand on his shoulder. Her display of solidarity was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

“...Well. We’ll have to figure out something later,” Enrique mused, parsing through his mustache. “You two are still grounded,” he warned, holding up a finger. “But for now...I’m glad you two were able to own up and apologize to each other.” Miguel and Rosa didn’t often agree on much of anything. They tended to get on each other’s nerves when they were around each other, which wasn’t often- for a reason. They even fought over music. After Coco...they’d let their grief get the best of them more than once, and their interactions had been more heated than usual, but nothing like tonight. He knew it was unlikely he’d ever get the full story out of either of them, but to see them standing together was more than he could’ve hoped for a day or two ago. He smiled. If arguments were unavoidable, then at least neither of them decided to run off and get lost. “Tonight’s for family. We can deal with this after Día de Muertos.”

The other Riveras were close to finished with cleaning up Dante’s disastrous tumble. Enrique turned to join them, motioning for the two to follow him, but neither of them moved, and it was just Miguel and Rosa. Time seemed distorted around the two of them, moving like tree roots through the earth, and everyone else was like leaves falling to the ground: slow, but floating in the moment- not stuck, dug neck deep in their own mess.

Rosa surprised herself by being the first to initiate the hug. She was far less tactile than the rest of her family- particularly Miguel, who looked for any excuse to hug someone. He tensed at first, not expecting the sudden contact, but reciprocated with a ferocity worthy of Abuelita a moment later. “I’m sorry,” she repeated in a murmur. Rosa couldn’t tell if her voice was so weak because he was squeezing her too tight or because her throat constricted on its own. With a final squeeze of her own, she let go and drew back.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, glancing aside. “Are we even?” He extended a hand, and they shook on it, right in the middle of the graveyard.

When she grabbed his hand, a shiver ran down her spine. It was near imperceptible, and it wasn’t a _bad_ tingle, like the ones she got when things felt spooky or something unexpected went wrong. It felt...warm, almost, like fresh pan dulces and gentle candles, the flames of their wicks undisturbed by human presence. Something shimmered at the edge of her vision. She squinted, and smoke-like cempasúchil petals coalesced into a vague, blurred form past Miguel. She hid her gasp with the hand that was not grasping her cousin’s; she didn’t doubt that her grip on his hand had tightened almost to the point of pain, and for that she mentally apologized, but she didn’t dare make a sound, as though any disturbance might blow the figure away.

An enigma in the evening, Mamá Coco stood in her pink shawl with matching slippers and loose white dress that matched the color of her bones and stark hair. Her face was adorned with strange, colorful markings that were indistinguishable at such a distance, but which stood out as bursts of orange, pink, and yellow against alabaster white bone. She was situated beside the broken harmonica, smiling in her knowing way: it was the cheeky grandmother expression that revealed her youthful heart, the one that whispered, ‘ _I know what you’ve done, and I won’t tell if you don’t,'_ or, ‘ _Trust your heart, mija,’_ or ‘ _Let me tell you a story,’_ or a million other things she imagined Coco had said at some point, but that Rosa had been too young to remember. Perhaps then she hadn’t even been a figment in her parents’ minds, too preoccupied keeping a handle on Abel, but she knew ever without needing to hear her say them that these were things Coco would have said. Even if she had to squint to make her out, Rosa knew. Those wizened eyes were too familiar to be imagined.

“She’s here,” she whispered, “Mamá Coco’s here, Miguel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiitsbeenawhileimsorrywhoops
> 
> i'm sorry guys I totally tricked yall with that rosa moment bUT IT HAD TO BE DONE  
> THIS IS HOW I PLANNED IT ALL ALONG  
> uhh this is not much of a chapter tbh and I have...............not...........written chapter 8...........rip...BUT HEY THIS ISNT THE END YET :D more dead relatives to come!  
> uhh I don't have a lot to say here sorry guys :V hope you like it and tell me what you think...?


	8. not an update- sorry

          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys.
> 
> i know it's been a long time, and i still don't have anything new written, so i feel bad adding this, because i know we've all seen this before. yknow, the thing where you're really excited because a fic that hasn't updated in a long time finally updates and you open it and you find out it's just the author apologizing about taking so long or saying they're done with the work or something and uh i hate to be on the other end of it but now i'm That Person who got your hopes up for nothing, and i didnt want to leave you with Literally Nothing, so there's a drawing- it's not much but at least it's hector.
> 
> anyway uh this semester Happened and i haven't been motivated to write since. maybe i'll write when i'm out of school in may- but no promises :V i really honestly do want to finish this story, though, and i really hope i'll be able to complete this someday. i know this is a disappointing '''''update''''' but i want to thanks for leaving comments, even if i haven't been responding to them. i do see them, and i do really appreciate hem.
> 
> again, i'm sorry. hopefully i'll be back soon.


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